Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason

Monday 15 December

9st 3 (seems, alas to be true that weight finds own level), cards sent 0, presents purchased 0, improvement in hole in wall since originally made: single holly sprig.

6.30 p.m. Everything is lovely. Usually, week before Christmas, am hungover and hysterical, furious with self for not escaping to tiny woodman's cottage deep in forest to sit quietly by fire; instead of waking up in huge, throbbing, mountingly hysterical city with population gnawing off entire fists at thought of work/cards/present deadlines, getting trussed up like chickens in order to sit in grid-locked streets bellowing like bears at newly employed mini-cab drivers for trying to locate Soho Square using a map of central Addis Ababa, then arrive at parties to be greeted by same group of people have seen for last three nights only three times more drunk and hungover and want to shout 'WILL YOU ALL JUST SOD OFF!' and go home.

That attitude is both negative and wrong. At last have found way to live peaceful, pure and good life, hardly smoking at all and only a bit pissed once at Jude's wedding. Even drunk man at party on Friday did not really disturb equilibrium when called me and Sharon 'glib media whores'.

Also got brilliant mail today, including postcard from Mum and Dad in Kenya saying Dad has been having a whale of a time on Wellington's jet-ski and did the limbo with a Masai girl on buffet night and they hoped Mark and I won't be too lonely without them at Christmas. Then a PS from Dad saying, "We haven't got twins, it's well over six foot and more than satisfactory on the bouncy front! Hakuna Matata."

Hurrah! Everyone is happy and at peace. Tonight, for example, am going to write Christmas cards not with reluctance but with joy! - for as it says in 'Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk', the secret of spiritual happiness is not doing the washing up in order to get the washing up done but to do the washing up. Is exactly the same with Christmas cards.

6.40 p.m. Bit of a boring idea though, just sitting in all evening writing Christmas cards when is Christmas.

6.45 p.m. Maybe will have one of chocolate tree decorations.

6.46 p.m. Maybe - too - will just have little festive glass of wine to celebrate Christmas.

6.50 p.m. Mmm. Wine is delicious. Maybe will have one cigarette also. Just one.

6.51 p.m. Mmm. Cigarette is lovely. I mean self-discipline isn't everything. Look at Pol Pot.

6.55 p.m. Will start cards in a minute when have finished wine. Maybe will just read letter again.

Cinnamon Productions

Sit Up Britain FiveAlive Blind Snog

From the Desk of Grant D. Pike, Chief Executive

Dear Bridget,

As you may have been aware, a Staf-trak programme has been under way during the last year monitoring staff performance and the flow of ideas throughout Cinnamon Productions.

You will be delighted to hear that 68 per cent of the fun "And finally" end of programme items on Sit Up Britain have originated with you. Congratulations!

We understand that your resignation in September arose through disagreements with Sit Up Britain's Executive Producer Richard Finch. Richard, as I'm sure you have heard, was suspended from his position in October due to 'personal difficulties'.

We are currently re-organizing the staffing on the show and would like to invite you to rejoin the team, either promoted to Assistant Producer or in consultatory capacity, providing a flow of ideas on a freelance basis. The period since your resignation would be considered as paid leave.

We believe that - injected with new positive energy and get up and go - Sit Up, as the flagship of Cinnamon Productions, has a great future in the twenty-first century. We hope that you will be a major creative force in our new revamped team. If you will telephone my secretary to arrange an appointment I will be delighted to discuss revised terms and conditions with you.

Yours, Grant D. Pike

Chief Executive, Cinnamon Productions

You see! You see! Also Michael from the Independent says I can have another go at a celebrity interview as they got quite a few letters after the Mr Darcy interview. As he said, anything that gets letters is good no matter how bad it is. So I can be a freelance. Hurrah! And then I never have to be late. Think will have a top up to celebrate. Ooh goody, doorbell!

Goody, goody. Is arrival of Christmas tree. You see! Really on top of Christmas. Mark is coming round tomorrow and will find Christmas Casbah!

8 p.m. As tree men staggered upstairs, grunting and gasping, feared may have underestimated largeness of tree, especially when terrifyingly filled entire doorway then burst through, branches flapping like invasion of Macduff in woods of Dunsinane. A spray of soil and two youths followed going, "It's a fucking big 'un, where do you wan' it?"

"By the fire," I said. Unfortunately, however, tree would no way fit, some branches poking into flames, others forced up vertically by sofa and rest burgeoning into middle of room while top of tree bent at odd angle against ceiling.

"Can you try it over there?" I said. "What's that smell by the way?"

Claiming it was some Finnish invention to stop the needles dropping, rather than the obvious fact that the tree had gone off, the boys struggled to place tree between bedroom and bathroom doors at which branches sprang out totally blocking both.

"Try the middle of the room?" I said with tremendous dignity.

The boys sniggered at each other and manhandled tree monster into the centre of the room. At this point I couldn't see either of them any more. "That's fine, thank you," I said in a high, strangled voice, and they departed giggling all the way down the stairs.

8.05 p.m. Hmm.

8.10 p.m. Well, is no problem. Will simply detach from issue of tree and write cards.

8.20 p.m. Mmm. Love the lovely wine. Question is, does it matter if you don't send Christmas cards? Sure there are people from whom have never in my life received a Christmas card. Is this rude? Always seems faintly ridiculous to send e.g. Jude or Shazzer a Christmas card when see them every other day. But then how can one expect cards in return? Except that, of course, sending cards never yields fruit until following year, unless send cards in first week of December but would be unthinkable, Bored-Married-style behaviour. Hmm. Maybe should do list of pros and cons of sending cards.

8.25 p.m. Think will just have little look at Christmas Vogue first.

8.40 p.m. Attracted yet massively undermined by Vogue world of Christmas. Realize own fashion look and gift ideas grimly outdated and ought to be cycling, wearing slippy Dosa petticoat with eiderdown on top and puppy slung over shoulder, posing at parties with pre-pubescent model daughter and planning to buy friends pashmina hot-water bottle covers, fragrant stuff to put in laundry instead of usual stench from service wash, silver flashlights from Asprey - with Christmas tree lights meanwhile reflecting sparklingly off teeth.

Am not going to take any notice. Is v. unspiritual. Just imagine if Pompeii-style volcano erupted south of Slough, and everyone was preserved in stone on bicycles wearing puppies, eiderdowns and daughters, future generations would come and laugh at spiritual emptiness of it. Also reject mindless luxury gifts, which say more about showyoffiness of giver than thought for receiver.

9 p.m. Would quite like pashmina hot-water bottle for self though.

9.15 p.m. Christmas gift list:

Mum - pashmina hot-water bottle cover. Dad - pashmina hot-water bottle cover.

Oh God. Cannot ignore tree-pong any longer: is pungent and repulsively reminiscent of pine-scented shoe insole that has been worn for several months penetrating walls and solid hardwood door. Bloody tree. Only way to traverse room now would be to snuffle under tree in manner of wild boar. Think will read Christmas card from Gary again. Was great. Card was rolled up in shape of bullet and "Sorry!" on it. Inside it said:

Dear Bridget,

Sorry about the bullet. I do not know what come over me but things have not gone good for me with money and the fishing incident. Bridget, it was special between us. It really meant something. I was going to finish the infill when the money came through. When that solicitor's letter come it was that wanky I was gutted and lost a grip on myself.

Then there was a copy of Angler's Mail opened at page

10. Opposite a page headed "Carp World" with an article on "Pick of the Pellet Feeds" were six pictures of fishermen all holding big slimy grey fish, including one of Gary with a pretend stamp across saying "Disqualified" and a column underneath headed:

BOILING MAD

Three times East Hendon champion Gary Wilshaw has been suspended from East Hendon AA after a fish switching incident. Wilshaw, 37, of West Elm Drive, took first place with this 321b 12oz common carp allegedly on a size 4 hook to a 151b snake-bite hook link and 14mm boilie.

It later emerged, through a tip off, that the carp was a farmed fish from East Sheen, probably planted on the size 4 overnight.

A spokesman for East Hendon AA said, "This kind of practice brings the entire sport of reservoir coarse fishing into disrepute and cannot be tolerated by the East Hendon AA."

9.25 p.m. You see, felt powerless like Daniel. Poor Gary with his fish. Humiliated. He loves fish. Poor Daniel. Men at risk.

9.30 p.m. Mmm. Wines delicious. Is festive party on own. Think of all lovely people who have been in life this syear, even ones who did bad things. Feel nothing but love and forgiveness. Holding on to resentment juss eesaway at one.

9.45 p.m. Swil write carsnow. Will do liss.

11.20 p.m. Dunnit. Off to postssbox now.

11.30 p.m. Backinfla. Blurry tree. I know. Wllget scissors.

Midnight. Yurs. Berrer. Oof. Sleepynow. Oops. Tumbled

over.

Tuesday 16 December

9st 12, alcohol units 6, cigarettes 45, calories 5,732, chocolate tree decorations 132, cards sent - oh God, hell, beelzebub and all his sub-poltergeists.

8.30 a.m. Bit confused. Has just taken an hour and seven minutes to get dressed and am still not dressed, having realized there is splodge on front of skirt.

8.45 a.m. Have got skirt off now. Will put grey one on instead, but where the fuck is it? Oof. Head hurts. Right, am not going to drink again for ... Oh, maybe skirt is in living room.

9 a.m. In living room now, but everything is such a mess. Think will have some toast. Cigarettes are evil poison.

9.15 a.m. Gaah! Have just seen tree.

9.30 a.m. Gaah! Gaah! Have just found card that got missed. This is what says:

Happy Christmas to my dearest, dearest Ken. I have so appreciated all your kindness this year. You are a wonderful, wonderful person, so strong, and clear-sighted and good with figures. Although we have had our ups and downs, it is so important not to hold on to resentment if one is to grow. I feel very close to you now, both as a professional, and as a man. With real love,

Bridget

Who is Ken? Gaaah! Ken is accountant. Have only met him once and then we had row about sending my VAT in late. Oh my God. Must find list.

Gaaah! As well as Jude, Shazzer, Magda, Tom etc. list includes:

The Assistant to the British Consul, Bangkok The British Ambassador to Thailand

Rt Hon. Sir Hugo Boynton Admiral Darcy

DI Kirby

Colin Firth

Richard Finch

The Foreign Secretary

Jed

Michael at the Independent

Grant D. Pike

Tony Blair

Cards are at large in the world and do not know what have put in them.

Wednesday 17 December

No feedback from cards. Maybe the others were fine actually and Ken's was throwback freak.

Thursday 18 December

9.30 a.m. Was just on way out when phone rang. "Bridget, it's Gary!"

"Oh hi!" I trilled hysterically. "Where are you?"

"In the nick, aren't I? Thanks for the card. That was sweet. Sweet. It really means the world."

"Oh, hahahaha," I laughed nervously.

"So are you going to come to see me today?"

"What?"

"You know ... the card."

"Uuuum?" I said in a high, strangled voice. "I can't quite remember what I put. Do you ... ?"

"I'll read it to you, shall I?" he said shyly. Then proceeded to read, stumbling over the words.

Dearest Gary,

I know that your job as a builder is very different from mine. But I totally respect that, because it is a real craft. You make things with your hands and get up very early in the mornings and together - even though the infill extension isn't finished - we have built something great and beautiful, as a team. Two very different people, and even though the hole in the wall is still there - after nearly eight months! - I can see the growth of the project through it. Which is wonderful. I know that you are in prison, serving your dues, but soon the time of that will be over. Thank you for your card about the bullet and the fishing and I really, really forgive you.

I feel very close to you now, both as a craftsman, and as a man. And if anyone deserves joy and a real creative charge in the coming year - even in prison - it is you.

With love, Bridget

"Creative charge," he said in a throaty voice. Managed

to get away by explaining was late for work but ... Oh God. Who have I sent them to?

7 p.m. Back home. Went in for first consultancy meeting in office, which went really quite well, actually especially since Horrible Harold has been demoted to fact-checker for being boring - until Patchouli yelled that she'd got a call from Richard Finch in the Priory, she was putting it on speaker phone and everyone had to listen.

"Hello team!" he said. "Just called to spread a little festive spirit as it's the only sort I'm allowed. I'd like to read you something." He cleared his throat. "'A merry, merry Christmas, dearest Richard." Isn't that nice?" There was a spurt of laughter. "' I know our relationship has had its ups and downs. But now it is Christmas I realize it is very strong - challenging, vigorous, honest and true. You are a fascinating, fascinating man, full of vigour and contradiction. I feel very close to you now it is Christmas

- both as a producer and as a man. With love, Bridget."" Oh, oh, it was just ... Gaah! Doorbell.

I I p.m. It was Mark. With a very odd expression on his face. He came into the flat and looked around in consternation. "What's that strange smell? What in the name of arse is that?"

I followed his gaze. Christmas tree in truth did not look as good as remembered. Had chopped off top and tried to trim rest into traditional triangular shape but now, in middle of room, was tall thin shorn thing with blunt edges like very bad cheap pretend tree from discount store.

"It was a bit ..." I started to explain.

"A bit what?" he said with a mixture of amusement and incredulity.

"Big," I said lamely.

"Big, eh? I see. Well, never mind that for now. Can I read something to you?" he said, taking a card out of his pocket.

"OK," I said resignedly, sinking down on the sofa. Mark cleared his throat.

""My dear, dear Nigel,"" he began. "You remember my colleague, Nigel, do you, Bridget? Senior partner in the company. The fat one who isn't Giles?" He cleared his throat again. ""My dear, dear Nigel. I know we have only met once at Rebecca's when you pulled her out of the lake. But now it is Christmas, I realize, through being Mark's closest colleague, you have in a strange way been close to me all year too. I feel"" - Mark paused and gave me a look - "'very close to you now. You are a wonderful man: fit, attractive," - this, I remind you, is Fat Nigel we're talking about - "vigorous"" - he paused and raised his eyebrows - ""brilliant creatively, because being a lawyer is actually a very creative job, I will always think fondly of you, glistening"" - he was laughing now - ""glistening ... glistening bravely in the

sunlight and the water. Merry Christmas to my dear, dear Nigel. Bridget."'

I slumped on the sofa.

"Now come on," grinned Mark. "Everyone will know you were pissed. It's funny."

"I'm going to have to go away," I said sorrowfully. "I'm going to have to leave the country."

"Well, actually," he said, kneeling in front of me and taking my hands, "it's interesting you should say that. I've been asked to go to LA for five months. To work on the Mexican Calabreras case."

"What?" It was all getting worse and worse.

"Don't look so traumatized. I was going to ask you ... Will you come with me?"

I thought hard. I thought about Jude and Shazzer, and Agnйs B on Westbourne Grove, and cappuccinos in Coins, and Oxford Street.

"Bridget?" he said gently. "It's very warm and sunny there and they have swimming pools."

"Oh," I said, eyes darting interestedly from one side to the other.

"I'll wash up," he promised.

I thought about bullets and fish, and drug smugglers and Richard Finch and my mum and the hole in the wall and the Christmas cards.

"You can smoke in the house."

I looked at him, so earnest and solemn and sweet and thought that wherever he was, I didn't want to be without him.

"Yes," I said happily, "I'd love to come."

Friday 19 December

I I a.m. Hurrah! Am going to America to start again, like the early pioneers. The land of the free. Was really good fun last night. Mark and me got out scissors again and did festive topiary turning tree into tiny Xmas cracker. Also we have made list and are going to do shopping tomorrow. Love Christmas. Celebration of good fun life, surely not perfection. Hurrah! Will be fantastic in California with sunshine and millions of self-help books - though will eschew all dating books - and Zen and sushi and all healthy stuff like green ... Ooh goody, telephone!

"Er, Bridget. It's Mark." His voice did not sound good. "There's been a bit of a change of plan. The Calabreras case has been put back till June. But there is another job I quite fancy taking on and, er, I was wondering ...

"Yes?" I said suspiciously. "How would you feel about. . ."

"About what?"

"Thailand?"

Think will just have a little glass of wine and a cigarette.

THE END